The Sins of Adam
by The Gallivespian
Summary: William Parry has been living in regret since the day he left Lyra and shattered the knife. No matter the cost, he has to see her again. Rated T for non-explicit sexual themes.
1. The Pieces of Æsahættr

'_If this is to end in fire, then we shall all burn together.'_

William Parry stood before the forge in his dimly lit workshop, a rack of tools to his left and a heavy iron anvil to his right. The room was spacious, panelled with wood and the walls lined with worktables fitted with vices and drills. The day was drawing to a close and the last of the sunlight crept through the dirty windows sat next to the heavy wooden door, which was barred shut. His dæmon, a midnight coloured cat named Kirjava, sat quite still next to him and gazed into the dimly burning coals in the pit of the forge.

Will had dedicated the last seven years of his life to blacksmithing and was heavily built as a result. His chest and arms were broad and thick from the daily toil of shaping steel, his palms calloused and his fingers blistered. He had poured his blood, sweat and tears into this small forge in the middle of nowhere, and always remembered the night he, Lyra and Iorek Byrnison had repaired his knife for the first time. He wondered if Iorek was still alive, and what he might say if he knew that Will was about to try and do it again.

He thought of Lyra and the fire in her blue eyes, and her heartbroken face when he'd stepped through the window from her world and the botanic gardens, and the last time he'd ever gazed upon it. His heart fluttered and Kirjava purred briefly, nuzzling his hand. He wiped away a bead of sweat from his forehead and took hold of his shovel. He dug deep with it into the large coal bin in the corner of the room and carried a load over to the furnace. He sprinkled it over and mixed it with the lumps that were already burning below. He pulled down on a rope above his head which was fixed to the set of bellows on the other side of the brick pit, by wheels and pulleys. The flames roared and the fresh coal caught light.

Several times he repeated this process, until the forge was as hot as he knew he could make it. The flames in the middle of the coals danced in shades of blue, white and red as the jets of air hissed through the holes in metal piping deep within the fire pit. He had already laid out the fragments of his broken knife on an old green cloth on a worktable near him. The rosewood handle was cracked and blackened in places from the last time it had felt the heat of the forge. From the handle there protruded an inch or so of jagged metal, longer on one side than the other. He had spent years meticulously arranging the other eleven pieces in what he knew to be the right order, which he now knew by heart.

He knew every crack in every shard of the subtle knife like the wrinkles and scars on the back of his hands. They were as much a part of his being as his beating heart, his dæmon Kirjava, and his love for Lyra.

He had tried to be cheerful and to think only of the wonderful times they spent together, however brief they were. But when he had closed the window between them, a piece of his soul had been ripped from him just as when he'd left his dæmon behind on the shores of the dead. A sickness had taken hold of his heart and he knew that nothing, save but one thing would relieve him of it. To see Lyra's face again, to touch her skin and kiss her face and to hold her close until his heart was light and free again.

He forced himself to cast her out of his mind, for he knew while he repaired the knife his concentration must be unwavering, absolute. He had repaired countless knives in preparation for this night, thousands of blades he had shattered with ice and steel and meticulously remade. Though he knew that the challenge of this was nothing compared to what he must now do. He knew it would be easy, rejoining the shards of Æsahættr, but to create an edge fine enough to take him across the boundary between worlds would be the hardest thing he had ever done, even when he had done it once before.

He turned down to look at Kirjava and into her amber eyes, and the bright fires of his forge danced across them in reflection. She spoke softly. 'Are you sure you should do this?'

'I've never been more sure about anything in my life.' He replied, and picked up his heavy iron hammer. With a pair of metal tongs, he picked up the handle of the knife and the first shard and placed them both the middle of the burning coals, so the metal was buried in the hottest spot. He pulled down laboriously on the bellows and the flames roared. He pulled down and let go the rope a dozen times until the metal was white and scorching. The blasting heat broke over his face like a wave, stinging his skin. He took out the pieces with the tongs, which had cooled slightly to a deep shade of ruby red, and placed them overlapping onto his anvil.

Twice he struck the join with his hammer, and the edge began to take. He flipped over the knife and struck it twice more. Back into the flames he placed it, and pulled down on the bellows again until it was glowing. Onto the anvil again he took it and hammered it with two precise blows on each side. In his mind he felt the impact of the hammer on the knife and it shook him to his soul. Kirjava sat as still as ever, watching every hammer blow send sparks fly up and dance out of existence. Her eyes never blinked, her gaze never leaving the ever firmer join between handle and shard.

Will watched it too, feeling with his mind something he hadn't felt since he last cut open a window to his own world. The feeling of looking and not looking at the same time, like when you can see some things better in the dark from the corner of your eyes. Feeling for the edge of the blade with his mind, he focused on balancing it absolutely but gently, and he knew what it meant if he did not keep it perfectly in line.

After a short while of gently hammering here and there, the first piece of the blade was reattached. He did not pause for breath before he plunged the next two pieces into the heat of the forge and pulled down on the bellows. He took them both out again and aligned them on the anvil, striking them with heavy blows while he fixed the edge in his mind. For the next several pieces he repeated the process and it was not long before his muscles ached and his hands were beginning to burn. He'd completed about four inches of the blade and still had three pieces left, which included two shards the size of his thumbnail and the tip which took the shape of a diamond and would fit within them.

The coals were beginning to burn out to ash, so he took another shovel full from the coal bin and heated them until they were searing hot once more. He placed the knife back into the hottest spot along with the last of the shards and smashed them into place with a few strikes of his hammer. He fixed his concentration on the join in the blade and felt every atom quiver while he brought his fist down onto the steel. He turned the knife and looked down upon it from the side, which seemed to be straight to his eyes. He gazed at the unfinished knife, now with only the tip left to join back on.

He knew he was never supposed to do this, but the pain in his heart was too great to stop now. He did not know how much time had passed since he began, it could have been years; it could have been minutes. All he knew is that he had to complete it before he lost himself among his thoughts. Summoning all of the strength he could muster, he plunged the final pieces into the flames and pulled down on the rope. His hands were blistered, his arms ached and his back felt broken. Every tug of the rope, every spark that struck and burned his skin he cherished. Every bead of sweat that rolled down his face and his back he gladly gave so that the knife would be complete once more.

With what felt like the last of his energy he pulled the pieces from the inferno and hammered the tip into place. He remembered the roar of Iorek Byrnison in the cave; _Hold it still in your mind! You have to forge it too! This is your task as much as mine!_ With the great bear's words swimming around his head he held it and kept hammering. Each blow upon the iron shot a pain through his head behind his eyes, but he did not break for a second from the state of mind he needed to forge the knife to end all knives.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the subtle knife sat smoking on the anvil, and Will dropped his hammer which landed with a loud thump on the stone floor below him. The handle of the knife was black and charred, and looked as though it may turn to dust if he touched it. The cracks between the shards of the hot orange blade were clearly visible, like scars across the desert. Will knew there was one last thing to do, and he poured yet more coal over the embers of the forge and cranked the bellows until they were white hot again.

He gently placed the completed knife over the flames and pulled with all his might until the blade shone from orange, to ruby red, to white. He felt like his muscles might give way and he'd never be able to pull down on that rope again, then an image of Lyra burst into his mind and overcame every sense he possessed, the smell of her hair like honey, the touch of her skin so smooth, the sound of her voice echoing _I love you_, and he knew he would be with her soon. At the moment she erupted into his mind, the surface of the knife sparked and exploded into colour, into midnight purple, swirled around deep blues and greens and ebony black, he saw the edge turn from black to silver to brilliant white and then it was translucent, a rainbow, and he could feel the keenness in his very soul. He took the knife at once and plunged it into a barrel of water. The water spat and boiled, then slowly bubbled down. When it had settled, he drew the knife out of the water and took it with his hand.

He turned over the familiar knife in his hands, and inspected it. The rosewood handle looked as though it would fall apart any moment, and the gold inlay had all but melted away. The blade itself was now around six inches long, much shorter than when he'd first acquired it. But much had changed since then, and this was no exception. Kirjava spoke for the first time since they had started. 'Is it sharp?' She asked.

Will nodded and with a fluid motion, drew the knife towards and straight through the anvil. The solid iron fell in two, one half tumbling to the floor. 'Yes,' He said, placing the knife carefully into its sheath. 'It's done.'


	2. Midsummer's Eve

'_To this orphan of heartbreak, disillusioned and scarred, a refugee.'_

Will was sat at the desk in his bedroom, in the small flat he shared with Mary Malone. She had become something like a mother to him after their experience, and he cherished her dearly. These days she was rarely at home, she always had some book signing event or some party to attend. Her 'fictional' works, _Shadows &amp; Angels _had been a smash hit all over the country. On the occasions she did visit home, she always brought him back a little gift from wherever she'd been. They were usually wood carvings, and he kept them in a chest under his bed.

So he sat at his desk, running his fingers through his dæmon's fur and wondering how he might phrase his final goodbye to her. He found the blank piece of paper in front of him intimidating, so he went to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he looked fondly at the framed photograph of himself and Mary, hung on the wall. The kettle rolled to a boil and clicked softly, and he poured it into the only clean mug left in the cupboard, stirring in a few spoonfuls of instant coffee. He sipped the drink and then spoke. 'What should we tell her Kirjava?' Will asked, before looking down at his dæmon.

She looked him in the eye and replied with, 'The truth.'

Will could say nothing, but sighed and nodded. He looked out of the window, absentmindedly stroking behind Kirjava's ear, and took in the view of the back gardens of the terraced houses below, perhaps for the last time in his life. The sky was grey and overcast and it didn't help his mood. How could he just leave Mary behind and commit the ultimate sin, for his own selfish reasons? He'd fixed the knife, but in doing so he'd given himself the chance to break so much more.

Kirjava seemed to read his mind and gave him the answer he wanted to hear. 'We're dying without them, Will.' She said. 'It doesn't matter how you look at it, we _need _to get back to them.' She couldn't mask the desperation in her voice as she said the word _need_. Will drained his coffee and rinsed out the mug. He sat back down at his desk, picked up his pen, and wrote.

_Dear Mary._

_I can't begin to put into words how difficult this is. To leave you behind, to leave this life behind. You've been good to me, Mary, and I wish things could have been different. But every day since leaving Lyra behind has been like living without the better half of my soul. By the time you get back from your trip, I'll be gone. I've already put the knife back together, and I'm going to Lyra. I'll seal up the windows I cut, and once I know where we'll stay, I'm shattering it for good. I'm sorry Mary, but I just wasn't strong enough to keep this promise._

_I'll give Lyra your love when I see her._

_Goodbye, Will._

Tears gently rolled down his cheek as he finished writing the note. Once he'd decided he was satisfied with it, he folded it and slid it into an envelope, addressing it to Mary. He drew out the wooden chest from underneath his bed and opened it. He picked out one of the smaller wooden carvings, a delicately carved cat of which he was very fond, and pocketed it. He took his jacket from the hook on the back of his door, and picked up the envelope. He turned to look once more at his simply decorated bedroom, and closed the door. He put on his jacket and left the note on the kitchen counter. He took his keys from the table and left through the front door, locking it behind him.

It was a twenty minute walk to the botanic gardens from where they lived, and it was an unusually cold day, so he zipped up his jacket and put his hands in his pockets. Kirjava stalked through the gardens and along the walls of the nearby houses, as most people were unaccustomed to seeing a wild-cat so dedicatedly following somebody down the street. She flowed and jumped as though made of smoke, never lingering long enough to be seen. If a person ever caught a glimpse of her, it was in the corner of their eye, a split second flicker of their imagination, and nothing more.

After seeing barely a soul, they finally arrived at the wall to the gardens Will knew backed onto the little grove where their bench sat. He looked up and down the street, and saw nobody, so with a practiced jump he grabbed hold of the top and hoisted himself up onto the wall, and over. Kirjava was already sat, waiting on the other side. He looked over for the familiar sight, and there it was. The little wooden bench he'd visited every year on this very same day, on Midsummer's Eve, hoping that somewhere Lyra was sat beside him, close enough to touch, but invisible, intangible.

Will made a few slow laps of the path that led around the tree and the bench, contemplating what he might say to her if this worked, what he might say to any of his friends if they knew what he'd done. He imagined their faces, and they all wore similar looks of disappointment. His stomach sank to think about it, so he pushed them out of his mind. He drew the knife out of his inside pocket, and took it out of its sheath. He held it loosely in his hand, the ends of his severed, scarred fingers tingling ever so gently.

His heart raced and his head swam, but he knew he mustn't try to cut through before his thoughts settled. He took a few deep breaths and felt for the weight of the knife in his hand, but of course it weighed nothing, it was him, it was his soul. He slowly drew the knife across the air before him, and felt nothing but the wind. He focused all concentration to the tip of the knife, and drew it in a wide motion again, slowly. He felt a snag, only for a second, and then it was lost. He focused again, and felt with his mind for the place where it had caught a moment ago.

The tip of the knife held in the air, resting in the delicate point between worlds. He had to resist the temptation to push, as it had not found the right world this time. So he moved the tip along slowly, and more grooves revealed themselves to him, the knife slowly falling into each and each was not the world he wanted. He drew the knife along until it touched a groove that felt somewhat warmer, friendlier than the rest. He had no doubt in his heart that this was her world, where his beloved Lyra sat just a few yards away on that bench.

He pushed the knife delicately through, and the thin veil between their worlds was torn. He pulled the knife downwards and slashed a window large enough to climb through, and sunlight poured in from the invisible boundary between worlds. He pulled out the knife and still clenching it in his fist, he and Kirjava stepped through and out of their world.

He took a deep breath and smelled the air, which was crisp and clean and full of the scent of honeysuckles in bloom. He smiled a wide smile for what felt like the first time in years, and turned to look at the window to the gaunt and gloomy Oxford he'd left behind. He extended his arm and felt for the corner of the tear, and pinched it together gently. It was the easiest thing he'd ever done.

Nearby, behind an ivy covered wall, he heard a soft, female voice speaking. He could barely make out what she was saying, but it sounded like she was crying.

'And I just, I wish I could know if he's alright.' She said between sniffs. 'I've asked a hundred times, and every time the answer just doesn't make sense. What can we do, Pan?'

At hearing the word _Pan_ his heart fluttered and seemed to settle somewhere in his throat. He could barely breathe now, and he stayed a little while longer to listen to what Lyra was saying, now audibly sobbing.

'I love him,' she said, between sobs. 'And I never should have let him go.' Those were all the words she managed to say before breaking into more tears.

He walked around the wall and saw the back of her head for the first time in nine years. Knife still in hand, he said simply, loud enough for her to hear. 'Lyra Silvertongue?'

She jumped with shock and turned to face the speaker, wiping the tears away from her eyes. They darted from his face, to the knife in his hand, and to the black cat who had revealed herself from behind his legs. She sniffed and wiped another tear away from her cheek. 'Will?' she asked, and stood up. 'Will? You can't be real, you can't be here.' she said, and a small, golden brown pine marten jumped up and onto her shoulder.

She'd grown into a more beautiful young woman than Will could ever have imagined. Her light brown hair fell in curls down to her shoulders, her piercing blue eyes awash with tears, but as powerful as the day he'd first looked into them.

'It's me, Lyra. I couldn't live another day without seeing your face again.' He said, and she threw all of her weight into his embrace, sobs racking her body as she wept into his chest. The pain and longing of nine long years of love poured out of her soul and onto Will's shirt. He grasped her tightly around her shoulders, and buried his nose in her hair, which smelled of honey and sweet flowers. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he kissed the top of her head.

For several minutes, neither could speak. Lyra continued to sob into Will's chest, and he held her for fear he might lose her again if he let go. And when she had finished crying, she looked up and into his eyes. Hers were red, and puffy, and glossed over with tears. She wiped them away and looked down, laughing. 'The shame,' she muttered to herself, and he lifted up her chin with a finger. She looked back up and into his eyes again.

'I'd almost forgotten how beautiful your eyes were...' he spoke softly, and she smiled. Their lips met and they melted into eternity, time stopped and the world no longer turned. He thought he'd never taste her kiss again, that he'd forget her warmth and die of the cold. Will ran his fingers through her golden hair and oh, how soft it was, and down to the lower of her back which he gripped with his fingertips.

They broke from their kiss but held their embrace. 'I never stopped loving you Lyra,' Will said, and kissed her cheeks. 'Every day has been torture.'

'The same for us Will..' She said in reply, and squeezed his chest. 'You're a man.' She said simply, and laughed, stepping back to look him over. She sniffed again and wiped her face.

'You've grown up plenty too,' he said, and stroked a lock of hair behind her ear. 'We both have.'

'How can you even be here?' asked Lyra suddenly, realising how impossible their encounter was. 'I thought you were going to break the knife?'

'I did, the moment I left.' Will said, and showed it to her. 'I spent all my time after that day learning how to repair it. I could never do as good a job as Iorek Byrnison, but who could?'

'It's amazing that did this Will.' Lyra said. 'But, you know you shouldn't have.'

'I know, but that decision is mine to live with, Lyra.' said Will, looking down now. 'But I had to see you again. The pain was too much.'

'You can't stay in this world though, Will. You'll get sick and you'll die, please don't ask me to face that.'

'Then we'll both leave, we'll go to another world altogether! I don't care how long I live; I'd rather live out ten years with you than another seventy without you.' Will said, wiping a tear that had begun its way down his cheek.

Lyra's lips formed a meek smile, and her heart raced as their eyes met again. Every day since their parting, she'd begged for this moment. Now it was here, and she nodded in agreement, taking his hands in hers. 'Where would we go? How would we live?'

'We'll go back to our paradise, and live out our days together.'

Lyra smiled fully this time, a grin of pure euphoria and she could not control it. She didn't care if she lived ten years, a week, a day. She had the other half of her soul standing in front of her once again, and now they were complete.


	3. Eden

'_This time we go sublime, lovers entwined, divine, divine.'_

Lyra led Will lazily by the hand through her Oxford, while they caught up on one another's lives, to the house she lived in on the outskirts of the city. It was a sleepy stone cottage, only small, nestled within a boundary of tall hedges. Baskets of flowers hung down from sash windows on the lower floors, with hanging baskets beside the front door. The purple, yellow and red tulips they held gave the air a sweet fragrance, which had attracted a few butterflies and some small, fat bees to take their nectar.

'Your house is lovely, Lyra.' Will said, and she unlocked the door. She could feel herself blushing, and she turned around to kiss him. They stepped over the threshold into the quaint hallway. A coat stand was sat to the right of the door, a hallway leading into the rest of the house to their left. A small desk and a mirror stood against the wall. She lit the naptha lamps which bathed them in a warm light, turning the cream walls into a cosy shade of amber.

'The Master of Jordan left me some money in his will. I reckon my father gave it to him, so I would have something to live on when I got older.' She said, moving through to the kitchen. 'You want some tea?' Will nodded and sat down, Kirjava sitting next to him, being sniffed by a curious Pantalaimon. Will looked on at Lyra while she busied herself filling the kettle, looking through the larder for dried tea leaf and some cups. He couldn't hold back a smile, how he had missed the way she moved with a clumsy, effortless grace. She placed the kettle on the stove and sat next to him. He put an arm around her shoulder and kissed her head.

They sat in happy silence for a few minutes, enjoying the moment, the last of the warm sunlight cutting through the window and into gold beams through the dust in the air. Soon the kettle began to whistle, so Lyra poured some tea, and they drank and spoke, and laughed. Before long their conversation moved on to when they would leave, and they decided that sooner was better.

They packed a leather satchel each with some soft, fresh bread, some cheese wrapped in cloth, salted beef and pork, and some fresh apples. 'Of course when we're there, we'll have to live off the land.' said Lyra, while they packed. Will took a sharp knife from one of the drawers in the kitchen and after testing its edge with his thumbnail he wrapped it in a cloth and placed in into his satchel.

'I'm breaking this one, as soon as we get there.' He explained, and gestured to the knife strapped to his belt. 'We'll need this for meat, and shaping wood and stuff.'

'Where are we going to live?' asked Lyra.

'In a treehouse? We'll build a hut!' He said and they both laughed. For the first time in a while, they both didn't have a care in the world. As long as they went hand in hand, it didn't matter where they lived.

When they had finished their packing, they swung their leather satchels over their shoulders. Lyra extinguished the fire in the stove and the lamps on the walls, and they stepped out of the little cottage.

'Are you ready?' Lyra asked, and took Wills hand in hers.

'Absolutely.'

Will raised the knife up and across the air, feeling for a notch in the veil. Several he found, but none were right, of this he was certain. He knew this world like he knew Lyra's. They all felt cold, uninviting, and so he left them closed. After a while of searching, the knife fell into the groove he was waiting for. 'This is it, Lyra.' He said, and pushed the knife through. He sliced down in front of him and a tear opened large enough for them and their dæmons to step through. What greeted them on the other side was a sight for sore eyes. To the south was a forest of enormous trees, the smallest of which would have dwarfed the largest in their own worlds. The forest was dense and vast, although surrounded in every direction by grassy savannah, paved with smooth black roads like capillaries across the back of a hand.

'We're home.' Lyra said simply, and gazed over their paradise.

'Only one last thing to do.' Will said, closing the window with a pinch of his fingers.

'Do it.' Lyra said and squeezed his hand.

Will felt with the knife for a notch in the fabric before him, and it caught almost instantly. The knife shuddered as though it knew what was coming. It felt tired, like it was ready, thankful that this would be the end. He squeezed Lyra's hand in return, and looking from her eyes to the vast lands before them, their lands. He wrenched the knife upwards, and against the ever enduring bond of their love, it could not withstand, it was nothing. A thousand pieces of metal and wood were scattered to the four winds, returning the dust of all the worlds. That was to be the last of the subtle knife.

They walked down toward the forest, their dæmons fighting and rolling around in the tall grass while their humans laughed, and hugged and kissed. They wrestled one another in the last of the day's sunlight; they ate bread and cheese, sat cross legged, and amused one another with stories from the time they had spent apart. Will passed on Mary's love, like he'd promised, and told Lyra of her riches and fame, in writing about the very land on which they sat.

They reached the trees before night fell, and under their shade and protection they decided to stay and rest for the night. There was a nearby stream from which they drank and filled some bottles they had carried in their satchels. Under a large tree they lay, on the soft grass, whispering quietly.

'This is where we should have stayed, always.' Lyra whispered to Will, looking individually at each of his fingers in the dwindling sunlight, as though trying to learn every inch by heart. She kissed the ends of the two fingers he had lost when the knife had first chosen him.

'I never wanted to leave, but we had to. We were so young back then, we couldn't have fought against all the forces that were against us.' He replied. 'But now we're here, and nobody, not an army of angels, devils, Gods or men, nobody is going to tear us apart again. I'd kill them all first.'

She kissed him fiercely, and rolled on top of him. 'I love you, Will.' she breathed, between kisses.

'I love you too, Lyra.' He replied, kissing her back in a fit of passion, sitting up and removing her shirt. Soon, they were both naked, laid on the grass, knotted together. Will greedily drank in every inch of his lover, who shone, radiant in the pale moonlight. There, they made love into the small hours of the morning, until they only kissed gently and whispered quietly into each other's ears. It would be several months yet before Lyra discovered she was pregnant, with their daughter.

After a while, they fell silent. It was still dark, and would be many hours until morning's light. The air seemed alive with electricity, which pricked the hairs on Lyra's arms and neck. Will felt it too, his heart surged and his stomach clenched with a deep anticipation. Kirjava, who had been curled around and grooming a very content Pantalaimon, reared her head and stalked over to Lyra, the moonlight illuminating her piercing eyes, her head low and her powerful shoulders raised. Her gaze never left Lyra's, and nor did Lyra break her own. Lyra extended a hand, slowly, and they met. She had forgotten how beautifully soft the fur around her neck was, which bristled at her touch. It may have been smoke, for all she knew. Such a powerful sense of connection, was touching another person's dæmon, to feel their soul melt into your own, to experience their own mind as a part of yours, it was dizzying. Will had been so entranced, resting his head on Lyra's naked chest, watching her caress and touch his own soul, he hadn't realised he was absentmindedly running his fingers over Pantalaimon, who was settling down in the crook of his arm. So tired, the both of them were, but neither of them had been more awake than this night, more aware of the rustling of the leaves in the trees above them, the gentle rush of the wind through the grass, the twinkle of the stars above them, the torrent of Dust swarming around them. For that night, and from that night evermore, they were absolutely one.

It was the following midday, after they had awoken, dressed and set off again, that they reached what they had been waiting for. Will and Lyra had crossed a great stretch of grassland flanked on the left by the great forest, before reaching one of the flat, black roads of ancient and long since solid lava. They turned and followed the road for half a day, and encountered barely another soul, save for a few creatures not unlike small deer, which were fast, and shy too, fleeing the moment they spotted the two travellers. So they carried on slowly into the dwindling sunlight, and made plans to settle for the night when the road met with and cut through the great forest. They decided they would make shelter amongst the trees, and lit a fire, for they had forgotten how cold this world became at night.

They shared some bread and cheese, and drank water. Lyra found some small fruits that Pantalaimon had sniffed and decided were safe. While they ate, and softly spoke, they both felt a low, deep rumbling in the earth, too low to hear. It was rapidly getting louder and stronger, and they both stood up. Kirjava's tail brushed and her back arched, eyes focussed in the pitch black, after Will had kicked some dirt over the fire. Pan had hurried up Lyra's arm and took a perch on her shoulder. Figures were emerging on the horizon, there may have been a dozen, moving quickly and with great purpose, in convoy.

When they were close enough to hear properly, Will and Lyra grabbed their satchels and hid behind the trunk of one of the nearby trees, peering out to keep the shapes in view. A voice had sounded from the pack, something like an alarm, a high pitched call which caused the figures to come to a halt. They approached Will and Lyra's tree, speaking and replying in grunts and rhythmic clicks. A torch was lit and thrust forward to illuminate them both.

_They hide behind their tree, but we see them. _One of the figures had spoken, but their language was unintelligible. The speaker and his party were powerful creatures, trunked like an elephant but covered in brown fur and grasping enormous, wood coloured wheels in their forelegs.

_They are veiled in sraf. We have not seen so much in a long time._

_Are they spirits?_

_No, they are flesh. _

As they spoke, Will and Lyra did not let go of one another's hands. They knew these creatures to be very gentle, and wise, the mulefa. But they were strong, and quick to startle. Will racked his brain to remember some of the language Mary Malone had showed him, and practised with him when writing her book. They had both been fluent, once. He remembered that their trunk was a vital aspect of their speech, and used his arm in place of it.

_Friend._ He grunted, and flicked his hand one way. He hoped they understood. They all took a step back, and a frenzy of murmured grunts and clicks echoed through the air.

_It speaks! How is this possible?_

_Can it be from our world?_

_That is impossible. _

They were hushed immediately, when a figure pushed through to the front of the pack, and stared the two humans in the eye. He was old, his wrinkled eyes were sharp and piercing, his fur was grey in places.

_They are the children. _He spoke gracefully, slowly, moving his trunk in wide arcs. _They are known to us._

_The children? They cannot be. _The speaker fell silent though, when the elder turned to hush him.

_They are the children from the other side. They saviours of our lands, and of all lands. You owe them your gratitude._

Will found he could understand more and more with each time they spoke, and he turned to Lyra and whispered. 'It's going to be alright.'

_There was a third, though she is not here._

Will remembered quickly and cleared his throat. _Mary. She did not come._

_Yes, the doctor. She is safe?_

_Yes. She is happy._

_Then I am happy._

Kirjava had been stalking, pacing slowly back and forth behind them, her eyes darting to and from each of the mulefa, but now she had approached and sat beside Will.

_Look how the sraf flows through their companions. They shine like starlight._ The elder gestured to the dæmons and spoke to his people, who agreed amongst each other. _Though I wonder, how are their feet on our lands?_

_The knife._ Will replied.

_Once more they cut the delicate balance. There are forces who would destroy you._

_They might try._ Will said, wearing a look of absolute defiance on his face.

The elder laughed in endearment, and so did the others. He took Will's hand in his trunk. It was incredibly gentle, and warm.

_We are glad to see the children. Come home, eat, and rest. _The elder clicked his tongue, and the largest zalif wheeled beside them, and lowered his back. _Ride Citsal, though we are not far from home._

Will helped Lyra mount the back of the zalif Citsal, and then climbed on himself. It only took a few hours hard riding before a village emerged over the horizon, with small windowed huts lit from the inside with the gentle glow of open fire. Lyra hugged Will from behind, Pantalaimon nestled in her pocket, Kirjava keeping pace beside them, for she had always been fast, and loved to run. 'I love you, Will.' She spoke, and squeezed him gently.

He took her hand in his. 'I love you too, Lyra.'

They were finally where they belonged, the children of two worlds, home at last.


End file.
